I'm Not Strong
by MarieMMania
Summary: What if Katniss and Peeta had died from the nightlock? What if the Hunger Games had continued? This is Calla's story. The story of a District Two volunteer with a lot more to her than anyone thinks; especially when an infuriating but kind boy from District Three tries to befriend her.
1. The Reaping

**Hey! This is my first fanfiction... Exciting stuff, huh? I'm on here reading them 24/7 though, so I'm pretty sure I know the basics. Enjoy!**_  
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**Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games.  
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_"Volunteer for me," he whispered, breath the stench of alcohol. "Volunteer or you'll regret it."_

_His nose was in my hair, and his lips were on my ear, but I didn't move. Flinching showed that I was scared; and being scared showed that I didn't respect him. _

_I didn't._

_"We'll see," I replied._

* * *

"Volunteer for me" haunts my dreams that night and torments me until morning. The morning of the Reaping.

"Rise and shine," he greets me gruffly, pounding on the door. "Put on something pretty."

I wait until his footsteps recede down the hall and slither down the stairs, and then I throw my alarm clock at the door.

Put on something pretty.

Huh.

I throw on jeans and a tank-top, completely unsuitable for Reaping Day clothes and pull a brush through my hair. I almost put on my mom's necklace, decide against it, and slip on my braided bracelet that Braylee gave me.

Outside my room the stairs muffle my footsteps, just as the walls try to muffle the sounds of beer bottles crashing against them each night. But nothing in this house can muffle the sound of his screams every night as he sleeps.

"'Morning," I say, entering the kitchen and pouring some cereal into a bowl on the counter.

"What are you wearing?" he asks me, dropping the newspaper and cleanly scraping the butter off of his knife.

"Something pretty," I reply, leaning against the counter to eat my cereal. He's so subdued it's scary. The last four years he didn't come out of his room.

He snorts and takes a sloppy bite from his bagel, getting crumbs and butter all over his mouth. "You better hope you volunteer first. Otherwise we'll have the Peacekeepers billing you with 'Inappropriate attire.'

"Let 'em," I reply, sipping up the rest of the milk.

He picks the paper back up and shakes his head. "Bye, Calla."

"Later." I drop the bowl in the sink and stalk out of the kitchen. In front of the front door I stall for a moment and turn around. A foot away, close enough for me to reach out and touch is a portrait of my mom. In some ways it's like looking at me. I have the same light brown hair, the same vivid blue eyes, and the same smirk disguised as a smile.

She didn't deserve it.

Neither do I.

"Bye, Mom," I choke out. And then before I do something stupid I throw open the door of my house and step quietly out into the sunlight.

It's funny how you can feel like a wreck inside and no one else notices.

It's funny how no one else cares.

And no one wonders.

The birds are singing, the miner's calls are echoing down the mountain, and the little kids next door are playing hop-scotch.

"Hey, Calla!" Laura calls, waving her chubby fingers at me. "Happy Reaping Day!"

It's hard not to scream.

"Hey, Laura," I reply.

"Who do you think it'll be this year?" Walker, her older brother, asks me, just barely making the tenth square.

"Who knows?" I answer.

I hate this conversation.

"Hey guys, I'm going to be late. I'll see you later, okay?"

"Okay, Calla!" Laura chirps, neatly landing on one foot, then skipping to the other one. "See you!"

I walk away from them.

Just like she walked away from me.

"Cal!"

I hear the shout before I see the car, and I turn around right as Braylee and Zane drive by and screech to a halt next to me. Zane's at the wheel with his arm around Braylee's seat, and her face is flushed.

"Happy freaking Reaping Day!" Braylee calls out to me. I know she means well, but she's the only person I've told about my hate for the Games, you'd think she'd catch on.

"Back at you," I reply, sending a wary glance at Zane. He bothers me too. I guess anything as pretty as him seems too good to be real.

"What are you waiting for?" she calls, "Hop in!"

I can't really explain to her that I want to spend my last moments in District Two alone, because she'd call me crazy.

"Alright, scoot over," I sigh.

"That's my girl!" She opens up the door to the bright red truck and scoots down the bench. The truck is a remodel of an extremely old fashioned car from back before the Rebellion. Instead of having two seats, its a full bench to sit on. Braylee scoots over so that I have room, but she scoots so far over that she's basically on Zane's lap. As I sit down and pull the door shut Zane plants a sloppy kiss on her lips. They've been going out together for a week. A week.

You'd think they were engaged.

After Braylee starts giggling he pulls away, smirks at me, and starts the car again.

"What are you wearing?" Zane asks me, disgusted, after he pulls back onto the road.

"Funny, you're not the first person to ask me that today," I reply. After that we drive the rest of the way to the town square in silence. At first I thought it was my awkward presence, but then I realized that they were taking everything in for the last time too.

Zane pulls the car into the parking lot and turns it off.

"See you on the other side, baby," he says to Braylee, kissing her quickly. I feel like I'm invading their privacy, which is stupid since they were holding hands the whole drive, but I get out of the car anyways. They come out right after, with Zane not even glancing at me.

Bye.

Braylee grabs my hand and pulls me over to where we check in. The lady zaps my finger and puts my blood sample on the check in sheet.

Wouldn't want one of us getting lost.

I wait on the other side for Braylee. She comes over rubbing her finger and grimacing, "I hate that," she mutters. "You'd think it'd hurt less on the fifth time through."

"Still got two more," I laugh, as we weave our way through the marked off section labeled '16'.

Some of the girls around us are crossing their fingers, some are laughing without a care in the world, and others are talking quietly with their friends. I'm the only one that's not in a dress. I'm also the only one without my hair done.

"If it makes any difference, I think it's totally bad-ass that you wore that." Braylee says, reapplying her lipstick.

"Hah, you have no idea."

The microphone on the stage booms.

Here we go.

* * *

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Reaping of the 96th Hunger Games!"

People in the audience cheer as our escort appears on the stage and grabs the mic. His hair is dyed ice blue and fashioned into a lion's mane around his face. His eyes are the color of emeralds, and when he blinks you can see the bright green eyeshadow he applied. Surprisingly, the rest of his face is fairly normal, except for the pointed teeth he wears.

"As most of you know, I am the escort for this lovely District, Tearnan Rings!"

The crowd of parents cheer and the kids I'm standing with clap politely. Some of them even stomp their feet, creating a loud roar that echoes through the Town Square.

"Thank you, thank you. Today I am here to select the two tributes that will courageously serve their district in the annual Hunger Games!"

More roars from the crowd. I cross my arms in front of my chest.

"Now, without further ado, the girls."

This is how it works. With so many people that train and are willing to volunteer, there's a very strict rule. You must wait until the whole name is said. Then, you can shout out if you want to spare them and go into the Games yourself. The first person to volunteer after the entire name is said gets it. There's no arguing. Girls go first. I need to volunteer right now, or else I'll have to face in his wrath for another year.

Tearnan's hand drops into the bowl and dives through the sea of papers. It swims through them, and catches some, then lets them go because they're not important enough. I clench my hands into fists and pray that it's not me. Because if it is then I can't volunteer.

I don't want to have this forced on me. It's cruel. But I can't face him anymore, and if I don't do this RIGHT NOW then I'm going to have to put up with it for another year. I can't. I can't.

"Sadie Ralling!"

Silence pierces the Square after the name is said. She's a girl I know from school, younger than me but strong. I could give up right now and let her die. I could do it. Now. Do it now.

I open my mouth to speak.

"Cal, what are you doing?" Braylee asks me nervously. She senses it. Whether it's the way my fists are clenched or the way my mouth is hanging open, debating against itself, I don't know.

"Cal?"

"I volunteer!" I scream, piercing it. Piercing everything. "I volunteer!" The adrenaline of saying those two words makes my cheeks flush and I can't exactly remember what I'm volunteering for or where I am.

"What the hell are you doing?" Braylee asks. "Moron! Moron! What are you doing?"

"Well, we have a volunteer!" Tearnan says, his eyes glinting with their emerald spark. "Not that it's a surprise. Come on up!"

I can't process what he's saying. I can't process what I just did. My heart is inching it's way up my throat and it's going to choke me. Panic. Don't panic.

"Calla, you hate this!" Braylee whispers to me, grabbing my arm in a vise-like grip. "Remember? You hate the Games and the Capitol, and that's what makes you different. And I love that about you! What are you doing?"

I turn my head and smile at her. I can feel it invading my face. Alien. "I'm volunteering," I say. "Let go."

Her mouth drops open and she lets go of my arm. "Calla, oh my God."

I turn away from her and walk through the crowd of people I'm standing amongst. They make a path for me, and watch as the quiet girl they'd seen around but didn't know very well walks up to the stage.

"Very good, very good." Tearnan says, eyeing me up and down. "Welcome... ah, what's your name?"

I've reached the stage now and mounted the steps. But I can't speak. So many eyes and faces are staring at me from the mass of people.

I swear I can hear my heart beating. Threatening to choke me from it's place in my chest. Choking, always choking. Ever since those words were whispered long ago, ever since they were whispered with a threat.

"Volunteer for me."

I did.

"What's your name?" Tearnan asks again, and people chuckle.

"Calla," I answer. "Calla Jays."

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**Woot! Woot! There's the first chapter for ya! Reviews are nice. Whether it's criticism or not, I would love to read it! So REVIEW!**


	2. The GoodByes

**Hello! So I posted my chapter yesterday and was all proud of myself for figuring out how to do it, went back and read it, and realized how terrible it was. I could've been overreacting, but I felt this huge need to go back and change everything. But then, being my untechnical self, couldn't figure out how to edit it. So, if anyone knows, feel free to tell me. **

**In fact, I felt so bad about the last chapter that I wrote this one right away. **

**I also want to say thanks to my two followers. (You guys are awesome!) **

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games.**

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The rest of the ceremony is a rush. A hand is sunk into the sea, a name is caught, a fish is drowned.

He's 12. Only 12.

But he wants it; and no one volunteers.

Strange how that works itself out.

"Give it up for your brave tributes Calla Jays and Brent Forlor!" is shouted for all to hear. Our hands are raised, our names are cheered.

It's over. We shake hands. I almost want to say that I'm sorry. Sorry that we have to be put up to this. Sorry that it's possible that I could be the reason for his death, that he could be the reason for mine. But the way that he spats on the ground and pounds his chest for the audience stops me.

He's only 12.

After the Reaping we're led down to the Town Square and put in rooms to say our good-byes. Being a more liked and trusted district, we're allowed five visits, each for five minutes.

I've heard others only get three.

The first visitor is Braylee. She sweeps into the room in that grand way she has and sits down on the plush couch next to me, taking my hand.

"Listen to me," she says. "I don't know what possesed you to do that but it was awesome. It was for a terrible cause, but it's that strength in you that I've always admired."

"Gee thanks."

"Don't mention it."

We sit in silence.

"I like your bracelet," Braylee grins, tapping the friendship bracelet she gave me last year that I wear.

"I like yours too," I say, tapping the one on her wrist right back.

Thousands of moments laying in the grass, and doing hair, and sneaking out in the middle of the night cloud up the room. Millions of laughs and smiles and promises that we swore on make it breathe.

Soon I feel like I'm choking again.

You'd think our last moments together would be filled with talks about what ifs, but instead it's filled with a silence of remembering. A silence of remembering all of the moments that made it bearable and happy after everything fell apart.

The timer on the wall reads 30 seconds.

"Calla, I don't think I need to tell you this, but I want you to know that you are one of the most amazing people I have ever met. And I am going to be cheering for you every single step of the way, okay? You can come home. I've seen you train."

I want to tell her that I can't survive. That there are so many factors other than wielding a sword that can lead to your death out there. But I don't.

"When I come home you're going to have your own room in my mansion,"

I tell her.

"That's flattering," she tells me. "I will definitely take you up on that offer."

The door is opened and a Peacekeeper motions that she has to leave.

"Don't do anything stupid," I warn. It's hard. So hard not to cry and break now and ask her to trade lives with me right now.

A single tear runs down her face, and she smiles. A smile that reminds me of cheesy jokes and ice cream and chalk in the summer.

"Have you taken a look at yourself lately?"

Once she's gone it's like the aching in my chest gives way, and everything I'm made of comes pouring out. She lied when she told me I had strength. She was always the strong one. It was never me.

Don't cry.

He is ushered in.

He looks the same as he did this morning, calmly taking a bite out of his bagel. He looks the same as he did a week ago in the dead of night, yelling obscenities at me as he tried to figure out how he messed up so badly.

It's always those thin lips curled into a frown. It's always those clouded, smokey eyes.

"Good job," he says.

How dare he.

I look away.

"Say it," he welcomes. "Say it now or forever hold your peace."

I won't have to hold it for very long.

...

...

An hour of not breathing.

...

An eternity of not moving.

.

.

.

I hate you.

I'm not sure I said it. I know my lips formed the words and spit them out, but I didn't hear anything.

"Say it," he says again.

"I hate you." I say, and then I try but I can't stop. "I hate what you did to me when she died. I hate how I was only two and had no knowledge of comprehending what happened and you stole it from me. I hate how you blame me everyday for what happened, because it wasn't my fault. I hate how I lived in fear of you every night while bottle after bottle crashed to pieces. You should've taken care of me. You should've put her in a safe in your head and been there for me. You should've left her there and made the key disappear."

But I'm lying. I'm lying about all of it.

He did take care of me. He went to work and he made food and he kept going. But he was a robot, a machine that knew only that it had a job to take care of someone, that didn't know that the job came with bedtime stories and "I love you's".

Maybe I'm being selfish. Maybe I don't care.

He leaves before the timer goes off, with nothing but a sigh and a fist clenching his hair.

The Peacekeeper looks surprised when he comes in to find me alone. He shakes his head and I look away.

There are no more visitors.

Maybe if I had lived more out there like Braylee had I would have more people coming in to say good-byes and good-lucks. Maybe if I had taken more risks I would have a boyfriend that would sit next to me and tell me that it was alright.

But I don't. And I didn't.

I'm not strong.

I wonder what she would think of me right now. I wonder if she'd be proud.

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**Second chapter finished! Again, if anyone wants to tell me how to edit something you've already posted, pleeeaaassse do. (:**


	3. The Capitol

**Thanks to ToTheSkye, I was able to edit the first chapter! It's really not much, just a bunch of changing sentences around. It doesn't affect the story at all, so you don't have to go back and read it. It just made me feel a lot more confident about the story.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games.**

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Waiting the rest of the 15 minutes in this room by myself is torture. I pace. I read the plaques on the wall. I stare out the window. I watch the miners on the mountain and wonder if any of them are singing. I wonder if any of them feel bad.

Tearnan bursts through the door with an energy that makes me want to gag. I feel like he's invading my privacy in this room, which is ridiculous. It was never mine.

"Come on, Cabba. Time to board the train!" he exclaims, grabbing my hand and pulling me through the doors.

"Calla," I correct him in the hallway.

Once we've reached Brent's room I'm certain he wasn't listening.

Brent joins us and we exit the Town Square building and blink quickly in the sunlight. A gleaming silver train is waiting for us down the hill. Around it are thousands of people, waiting to see us off.

I'm not strong.

Tearnan lets go of our hands and we walk in single file behind him. I slip to the back because I can't get the image of Brent pounding his chest out of my head.

He's 12.

I can almost picture him stabbing a knife into my back.

The train looms above us, getting bigger and bigger as we approach it. Soon we're in the middle of the throng of people that are screaming our names, reaching out to touch our skin. I'm deafened by the flow of noise; the relentless beat of our names that vibrate through my skull.

"Calla! Brent! Calla! Brent!"

I'm suffocating.

Tearnan ushers us onto the train and a servant seals the door shut behind us.

Suddenly I'm filled with a longing to claw at the door and escape. I just want to get out of this coffin and run to Zane's car, and have him and Braylee drive me home, and collapse in my bed, and hide under the sheets until the Hunger Games morphs itself into a dream. A nightmare.

But I can't.

I'm not strong.

I watch Brent ease himself into a purple velvet chair and open up a can of soda brought to him by a servant.

Tearnan, clearly unsettled by my inability to do anything by myself leads me to another velvet chair and orders me to sit. I do.

He pours me a glass of water and I sit there drinking it and wondering why it tastes like it has lemon it.

Outside the window people shout and cheer. My eyes fall onto a girl. She looks six or seven, Laura's age, and then with a start I realize that it is Laura, and that she sees me and that she's crying. And it's this sight, of my neighbor crying, that pulls me out of my silence. And finally I can feel myself breathing again.

I'm never going to see her again.

Don't cry.

I wave to Laura and open my mouth to say something, but then I realize that she can't hear me. And then the train is moving. If there's ever a more hopeless feeling then being taken from your home without a choice, and with no way to delay or stop it, with only the ability to watch yourself go, I never want to feel it.

* * *

The ride from District Two to the Capitol is short. Especially when you're aboard a train that can go up to 200 mils per hour. I have just enough time to explore the dining car before we're called for lunch. Tearnan announces that we'll be at the Capitol in "only an hour". And that "even wealthy, privileged tributes like you are going to be shocked."

I can't take it anymore.

The second he starts on my clothes I throw my napkin onto the table and leave.

It's not like there's anywhere for me to go, so I plop myself down into a chair on the other side of the cart and try to look angry.

Brent laughs.

He's 12.

Get over it.

Don't cry.

A door somewhere is opened, I can her the slish of air that enters the cabin. Heavy footsteps enter and you can hear the creak of a chair as it's sat in. I almost turn around. Almost.

"Hello Tearnan, it's good to see you again," a pleasant female voice says.

Amira.

Amira that won two years ago. That didn't kill anyone. Well, directly. Who literally convinced someone to jump to their death.

Amira. The first person to win since_ her_ death. The first person to lift the curse on District Two, who went 15 years without a victor. It would've been 14. But _she_ never came home.

Amira. Our mentor. The possible difference between life and death.

"Always befriend your mentor. If they like you, they might spend all the money on you. They might keep you alive." Advice. A quote form my instructor in Two that trained me for this moment. For every moment after this into the Games.

I wonder if she knows I volunteered.

I wonder if she's guessed why.

"Where's the girl?" Amira asks. Her voice is soft and silky, sympathetic but in control. It's a voice that killed someone.

"Behind you," Brent says. His voice is plain, low for his age. "She's moping."

I turn around at this.

"Well at least I'm not going to die within the first ten seconds. You're probably the smallest one. You know how many times a 12 year old has won? Once. Once."

"Wow, fire and ice, huh?" Amira takes some jam and spreads it on her toast. "Come join us, Calla." I want to say no, but something about her voice calls you over.

Amira places the toast on my plate and then adds some kind of meat that looks like chicken. She pours a creamy white sauce over it and fills my glass with a light orange liquid.

"You just can't do anything for yourself, can you?" Brent asks.

I lift up the toast and take a bite. Then I wipe off my mouth with my napkin.

"Nope, I'm completely unable to do anything for myself," I reply.

Tearnan rolls his eyes.

"Eat up," he says. "We're getting closer to the Capitol."

The Capitol. The city of riches and costumes and makeup. The place where everyone lives with a full belly; where everyone dreams of the next Hunger Games so that they can watch kids kill each other.

It's sick.

But it's beautiful.

Outside the window it looms out from over the sea, shining in colors I didn't even know existed. Vibrant reds and blues and greens. Glass. Glass everywhere.

Reflecting off the sky and the colors and the people that mill around the streets awaiting our arrival.

I wonder what it would look like if all the glass shattered. If for once everything broke and crumbled into pieces.

Like drunken bottles against the floor.

Like pictures and memories across the walls.

I'm suffocating.

I'm not strong.

Tearnan seems delighted by our reactions.

"Yes! Yes! It's beautiful, isn't it?" he sighs. "Ah, home."

Home. Home is gone. Home is buried in my head.

"It sure is colorful," I say.

"It sure is... bright," Brent says. I think he's trying just as hard as I am to sound presentable.

"Oh, shut it. You children have no respect for finer architecture," Tearnan says, waving us off.

Frankly, I'm more concerned about making it through the next few days without getting killed than finer architecture.

The train shuttles us farther into the city and through a tunnel. Bright lights fall from the ceiling and show the platform where hundreds, maybe thousands of Capitol citizens stand. They shout and wave and jump up and down in their garish clothing.

I stand and walk over to the window, leaning against it and looking out. They don't understand that they're killing people. They don't understand that we're going to die.

But then again, I shouldn't either.

Officially, I'm a Career. All of the tributes from One, Two, and Four are. We're trained to survive and fight, and then we volunteer for the Games, hence why my volunteering wasn't strange. We believe that the Games are an honor and that fighting in them is a privelge.

They

believe.

I

don't

believe.

The other districts have sense.

I have sense.

But I'm not strong.

"Calla, you okay?" Amira asks me, joining me on the window.

Don't cry.

"Yeah," I answer, standing up straighter, lifting my head up.

You need to enjoy this.

"I know, they're freaky, right?" she says.

"Very," I reply.

The train rolls to a stop and the Capitol citizens go crazy. They're screaming our names and clapping and cheering.

The train door opens, and cool air blasts me in the face.

I don't know if I feel it or not.

I'm suffocating.

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**Kind of a filler, but meh.**

**Review? (:**


	4. The Training Center

**So this will be the end of the fast updates because school starts tomorrow.**

**Ugh.**

**I've been updating really fast so that I could try to get the boy from District Three introduced into the story, which I managed to do in this chapter. (Yay!) **

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games.**

* * *

Tearnan and Amira lead us off the train and through the tunnel. Peacekeepers push the Capitol citizens back, but they still pull at my hair and rip at my clothing.

We pass another train; this one has a giant '3' painted on the cars.

District three. Technology and electronics.

Two tributes appear from it, a tall, muscular boy my age, and a slim girl a little younger. The boy looks up at the last second, right before he starts to walk, and catches my eye. They hold for a moment, an incredible color of blue and gray and something airy, and then he looks away.

I'm sorry, I want to say. I want to shout. He must die and she must die if I am to win.

I'm not strong.

Tearnan pushes us forward before we choke on the gassy fumes that the trains create and we press forward through the Capitol citizens. Pastels and neons consume each other until I have no idea idea if I'm looking at a jacket or a flower, and then the colors end.

In front us looms a huge building that I've seen millions of times on TV screens. The training center. The building that we will live and train in for the last few days of our lives.

Tearnan and Amira lead us through the giant glass doors and into an elevator, where we squish in with the tributes from Three. Although the elevator is massive, it's still crowded with eight people in it and I'm pushed into the corner with the boy.

I now see that he's two or three inches taller than me, and that his gray-blue eyes are actually a kind of teal color. His dark hair curls at the edges, just above his eyes, and this makes them look more dramatic. He reaches across me to hit the three button and I flinch, only to remember that he can't hurt me yet.

Can't hurt me.

Can't hurt me.

The elevator dings at the second floor and Tearnan, Amira, and Brent get off, exchanging pleasantries with the escort and mentor of the District Three tributes. Right before I step off they boy's hand brushes my fingertips. Anyone watching would think that it was an accident, but I can feel the piece of paper he stuck between my fingers.

I almost drop it to the ground. Almost.

I slip it in my pocket.

Once we're off and the elevator door closes, Tearnan lets out a dramatic sigh.

"Every district is assigned their own floor. Being from two, we get the second floor," he explains.

And we do.

Around me is an elegant dining room, and then a living room, and then four separate doors that probably lead off to bedrooms and bathrooms and closets.

And the decorations.

This place could come out of the President's mansion, itself, it's so formal. Flowers fill vases and shining glass windows cover the walls. Soft, velvet chairs and leather couches are spread everywhere. Mahogany tables with food piled on them arise from the kitchen.

It's a dream.

It's a paradise.

It's a deathbed.

"You like?" Tearnan asks.

"Amazing," I breathe.

"...Colorful," Brent offers.

"It looks the same as it did 15 years ago," Amira sighs. She disappears into one of the doors and it shuts behind her.

"Well, claim rooms. Go wash up," Tearnan tells Brent and I, pulling his hands through his blue lion's mane.

We run like children to the rooms. He goes left and I go right, and then I'm in my room.

It's massive, with a huge bed and control panels on the wall for everything. From food to temperature to clothing, if I want it, I merely have to type it in and it's mine.

The bathroom is even finer, with tile and glass and white, white, white. There's no vibrant colors to make me feel crowded. I can breathe.

I'm suffocating.

Before I turn on the water to the shower I remember the paper, crumbled in my pocket of jeans that I wasn't supposed to be wearing.

I take it out.

In swoopy, long letters is a name. A time. A place.

Talor. 9:00. Roof.

Talor.

9:00.

Roof.

I crumble it into a ball and throw it in the trash, but those three words have burned holes into my eyes.

It's an order.

It's a joke.

It's a request.

It's a wish.

But why?

Talor.

After my shower I go to my room and see that a fresh pair of jeans and a large T-shirt have been left out for me.

9:00

I pull them on and pace in my room until dinner is called, effectively killing two hours.

Roof.

Go.

Don't go.

Why should I?

Why shouldn't I?

"Dinner!" Tearnan calls.

Talor.

Footsteps outside my door, teal eyes blinking, trains whistling, a meeting on the roof.

Why?

9:00

"Calla! Dinner!" he shouts again.

"I'm not hungry!" I shout back.

Thousands of dinners that I had to make myself for years and years after he abandoned me.

Thousands of nights that I was alone.

Roof.

Footsteps, a fist pounding on my door.

Bottles crashing against the floor.

Promises scattered across the walls.

"Calla?"

Talor.

9:00.

Roof.

"You in there?"

A voice like honey.

Honey sweeter than sugar.

"I'm coming in..."

Trespassing through my door and yelling, yelling, yelling at me.

Cowering in the corner, trying to hide.

Don't come in, I say. But I don't quite say it.

Maybe I'm mute.

Amira finds me on the ground curled into a ball with my hands covering my ears. My hair is dripping down my back but I don't care and I can't feel it.

Extremely minor emotional trauma, she tells Tearnan and Brent. Shock. Leave her alone and she'll be fine.

A tray left by my door with food. A note placed between my fingertips.

Why?

Because I'm not strong.


	5. The First Meeting

No one comes in to check on me. No one comes in to tell me a bedtime story. No one comes in to say "I love you."

Stories are a gift.

I love yous are a dream.

I'm not sure they exist.

The clock reads 8:52.

Talor.

I picked myself off of the floor a while ago and got a grip. I'm not dead yet.

9:00.

Eight minutes. No, now there's only seven.

Roof.

I saw the button on the elevator. A single R on a button. A single R. A single place. A single note.

Talor.

What if it's a joke? What if it's suicide? Why do I care?

9:00.

Six more minutes.

Go. Don't go. Go. Go.

I pull on a jacket that's not mine from the closet, and boots that aren't mine from the drying, straight down my back.

Three minutes.

Go. Go. Go.

Slowly, I pull down the door handle and open the door. The hall is dark; the doors are closed. Tip-toeing through the darkness, ghouls at my back, a secret in my head. A meeting.

I reach the elevator and press the 'up' button. No one stirs.

When the elevator dings I step in, and my fingers linger against the R button. Why am I doing this? I haven't even talked to him. This could be a joke. This could be a cruel joke.

"You have to try things, Calla. Otherwise, how are you sure they actually exist?" A quote from Braylee that convinces me.

I press the button. The doors slide shut. Ten floors later, the door opens at the roof.

A silhouette is there, outlined against the night sky. There are no stars in the Capitol. They would rather create their fake, glittering ones than see the real ones out there.

I walk up to the silhouette slowly, taking my time. I lean against the railing next to him and look out over the candy Capitol.

"Hello," he says. His voice is clear, clear like the brook that runs by next to my house, that's water is sweet and pure.

"Hello," I greet him back. "...Talor."

"You read it," he says, not a question, but a confirmation.

"Well, I'm here," I reply.

I faint smile. A small teasing of the corners of his mouth that lift up and then quickly fall again.

"Why did you want me to come up here?" I ask.

"To see it," he says.

I look out over the Capitol. "How did you know about it?"

"My brother was Tristen Lour," he starts.

Tristan won last year. It was huge. He won because he used berries that were banned. Banned since some tributes in one game made a fool of the Capitol. This was his punishment for betraying the rules. For playing a game, his brother's life was punishment.

Sorry is not enough. Sorry doesn't cut it.

"And you were Reaped?" I ask, just to keep it going.

"Yeah, that's kind of why I'm here," he replies, quirking an eyebrow.

"Why would you tell someone from Two?" I ask. He could've given that note to anybody. If he wanted comfort, he shouldn't of expected me to be able to give it to him. I'm the Capitol's pet.

Not

the

Capitol's

pet.

"Because," he says, "You flinched. And real Careers never flinch."

The elevator. A flinch.

"I never flinched."

"Sure you didn't."

A silence, not awkward, but understanding. I am a Career that flinched, but did not flinch. I am not supposed to show fear.

"He told me to come here," Talor says, continuing with the story. "He told me to feel the air, because it might be the last time I get too."

"That's terrible."

"Yeah, well. He knew it would be me. I'm his only brother still eligible for the Games. The Capitol always gets it's revenge. He knew I was it. There was no use pretending." Talor looks up and searches for something. I think it's belief for what he just said.

"Was this your last year?" I ask.

"Almost. I'm seventeen. I just had to make it through this one and the next and I was safe."

Silence. There's no possible reply.

"I'm Calla," I say.

"Nice to meet you."

"You too."

"Volunteer?"

I sigh. I want to lie and say no, that I was the one unlucky District Two girl that was pathetically reaped into the Hunger Games without a volunteer to save her. But I'm not.

"Yes."

He snorts.

I must look disgusting to him. I must look like a rich girl crying because I got what I wanted. I must look like a terrible killing machine. He probably regrets bringing me here.

I don't want him too.

I'm not strong.

"Don't look all high and mighty. You don't know me," I say.

"So, tell me about yourself," he replies.

Maybe bedtime stories are just made up, but maybe they're not. Maybe they're sad stories of girls who were forced into a terrible fate and then came out a princess, but maybe they're not. It doesn't matter. I'm not a princess.

And tonight isn't a night for a bedtime story.

"It's getting cold out here, I think I'll go in."

"Do you want my jacket?" he asks, shrugging it off.

"No!" I say quickly, because I do want it. But if I take it I'll stay and say something I regret. And he'll be cold.

He looks hurt. He's probably disappointed that I wasn't able to comfort him. He probably thinks I'm cruel. Maybe I am.

I'm not strong.

Teal eyes blinking up to the sky.

"Don't worry about it," Talor says, shrugging the jacket back on. "Get some sleep. I guess I'll see ya later."

"Yeah, see ya."

I glance up at the sky once more before I leave. I think I see a star. But then it's gone with the wind.

* * *

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	6. The Confession

My dreams that night are clouded with teal eyes, shining stars, and a jacket hanging loosely over shoulders.

Then the nightmares.

A bottle sailing in my direction, my hand up to stop it, and glass across the floor. A snake weaving it's way through my house, with his eyes, hissing, hissing. A star that seems so sweet, that I chase, before it explodes into millions of pieces.

I'm suffocating.

"Calla! Get up! Breakfast!"

Tearnan's shouts pull me out of bed and I get into the shower. The cold water is cleansing, and I stay in there for a good thirty minutes.

When I get back to my room I throw on some loose sweatpants and a shirt. By putting my hand in a machine, my hair becomes instantly dry and soft. It's too bad I didn't find that yesterday.

I find everybody eating breakfast at the table already when I arrive.

"Well, there's the crybaby," Brent says, taking a bite of his eggs.

"Brent, being a little distressed is normal at this time," Tearnan explains, waving me over to take a seat. But there's disbelief in his voice. Two's are supposed to be strong. Two's are supposed to want this.

I'm not strong.

I need to get it together.

Starting now.

I sit down and a servant puts food down on my plate and fills my glass up with orange juice.

We all eat in silence, and then when Tearnan finishes he starts to speak.

"Today is the dress ceremony. After breakfast we're going to hand you over to your makeup team. They'll prepare you for your stylists. Whatever your stylist puts you in, go with it. I don't care if they want to burn you to a torch, do it."

"What if the outfit is terrible and we hate it?" Brent asks.

"Wear it," Amira answers. "They might not look like it, but those stylists know what they're doing."

District Two being the stone miners, you'd think our outfits wouldn't be very exciting. But we're also one of the riches districts, so we'll probably be dressed in diamonds and jewels. Our outfits are usually the favorites, so we really don't need to worry.

"During the ceremony should we look defiant or strong?" I ask.

Strength. I'm not strong. But I need to pretend.

"Is there a difference?" Tearnan asks.

"Yes," I answer.

Defiant means that you've won and you're on the top and you know it. Strong means that you have no idea where you are, but you know that you'll make it out.

Tearnan and Amira think about this for a moment.

"Defiant," Amira says at last. "You want to look like you've already conquered the arena."

"Done," I say.

They seem taken aback by my participation. They seem amazed that I'm able to function.

I'm suffocating.

"Alright, well let's go," Tearnan says, standing up.

He leads me and Brent to the elevator and pushes the down button for us.

"The Remake rooms are down in the basement. In order to make sure that you guys look like you know how to handle yourselves..." he glances at me. "You're on your own from here. Tata!"

He turns and walks away.

The elevator dings.

And there, standing in the middle of the elevator is Talor.

When I pictured seeing Talor again, I figured it would be down in the training center, not here in an elevator.

Just a few hours ago I stood here only knowing his name.

Now I know a little about his past, a little about his personality.

Now I'm riding down to the Remake center with him.

I wonder what his stylist will do to make his eyes stand out more.

Teal eyes blinking up to the sky. A jacket hanging loosely over his shoulders. Down, down, down, to the Remake dungeon.

"Nice to see you," Talor says.

Is he stupid? I'm not supposed to talk to him.

"You too," I reply politely.

Brent spats on the ground and turns his head.

"He's nice," Talor says.

"You know us, always on our best manners," I say.

"Don't talk to him, Calla," Brent tells me. "He'll be dead within the first hour. I'll make sure of it."

"Don't tell me what to do," I snap back at him.

"Ah, there's the normal Career behavior everyone knows and loves," Talor remarks. The elevator stops it's descent and the doors slide open. He walks out.

No.

I want to call him back. I want him to know that I'm not like them. I want him to know that the whole thing is a game and if I don't play then I'll die.

But I can't.

I'm not strong.

"Calla and Brent?" A women asks us. She has bright pink hair tied up into a sloppy but well-done bun, and eyelashes with fluttering butterflies on the ends.

"Yeah, that's us," I say.

"Splendid. I am Calla's stylist, Fuscia." She comes over and shakes my hand. "And this is Brent's stylist, Dara."

Dara, surprisingly, is a guy. He has hair dyed pink too, and extremely pale skin. You can see the veins beneath them.

"These are your prep teams. When they're finished prepping you up, we'll come in and give you your outfits and final makeup."

She pauses for breath. "Now, go."

Three of the stylists break off and lead me farther down the hall. The other three lead Brent into a door close by.

They congratulate me on my brave notion in volunteering and introduce themselves, but I don't catch any of their names.

The next few hours are filled with brushes and wax and tweezers and sticky solutions poured into bathtubs that I have to submerge my head in. By the end, I feel raw and bare and exposed.

They look over my body and nod and make noises, but I'm not listening.

Then Fuscia is there.

She looks me over quickly and then hands me a soft cotton robe, which I gratefully put on.

We go out into a side room to eat lunch, and I'm shocked by how much food these people have. They don't have to work for it or anything, it just appears.

Back in the remake room she orders me to close my eyes so that she can get my dress on. I feel it's weight as it's placed over my shoulders.

"Keep your eyes closed," she says. "Almost done."

My hair is put up in a fancy elaborate bun with flyaways flying in the perfect way. Then she lightly applies brushes and brushes of makeup to my face.

"Open."

The first thing I notice is the feathers. Millions of feathers that cover the dress. At the bottom they're dark gray, and then as they rise to the top they become smaller and lighter, until the top of the dress is filled with white.

I'm a mountain. A slim, glimmering, mountain.

It reminds me of home.

Then the makeup.

My lips are full, and pure white. My eye's blue is pulled out to the full extent with light gray eyeshadow and dark eyeliner outlining them.

Every outfit serves a purpose. Some say "back off". Others say "I'm free".

This one says that I am stone, that I am as unconcerned as the mountains.

It makes me beautiful.

"Stone is unbreakable," Fuscia says. "Strong, powerful."

"But I'm not strong," I tell her quietly, my eyes stuck on themselves in the mirror.

She laughs softly. "Oh, but you are."

* * *

Brent and I are put into a chariot together with the District One tributes. They're Careers too, which means that for the Games we'll all be allies... Until it's time to kill each other.

Brent is dressed in a dark grey suit with white hair dye and spiked hair. Instead of looking freakish though, it looks powerful. It even looks natural over his normally blond hair.

"I'm Aqua," the girl from District One tells me, holding out her hand for me as we bump along in the chariot.

I shake it. "Calla."

"And I'm Bron," the boy says. Unlike Aqua, with her dark hair and small figure, Bron is an ox, huge and muscular and tall.

They're dressed in shimmering, body hugging silver suits, that make them both look creepy and skimpy at the same time.

The chariot bounces around as they tell us stories of how they volunteered. Bron threatened someone to let him, Aqua used more intimate strategies.

"What did you do?" she asks me, a sly smile across her lips.

"Volunteer," I reply.

She laughs like chirpy bells. "No, really."

"I was just fast," I say.

After that they all stop talking to me until we get there.

"Good luck!" Aqua chirps, hopping out of the chariot.

"You too," Brent says.

The second my feet are on the ground a hand grabs my arm and pulls me to the side. I jerk myself free just to see Talor with a finger to his lips, pointing behind the chariot.

Alright fine. I'll play.

Teal eyes blinking up to the sky.

A jacket. A meeting on the roof. A crumbled up note.

Talor.

I follow him behind the chariot.

"What?" I ask.

"You look really nice," he says.

"You pulled me over to tell me that I look good? We're all supposed to look good. Talor, do you realize that once we get in that arena we will all die? Why are you trying to talk to me?" I ask.

But I know why.

I flinched.

"We're not all going to die," he says. "One will live."

"Same difference. I think it would be easier if they just shot us all and got it over with."

I'm not strong.

He holds up a slip of paper in his hand, and then grabs my wrist. Lightly, with long fingers, he opens up my hand and places the paper in it, closes my fingers, and drops my hand.

He quirks a smile and turns to leave.

Teal eyes blinking up to the sky.

Wait. I'm sorry for being cruel.

But I didn't say it.

And he's already gone.

I'm not strong.

This note has three words.

Please. 9:00. Roof.

I push it into my bun, hidden by hair.

Teal eyes.

Talor.

"There you are!" Brent says, coming up behind me. "We have to get into the chariots for the ceremony. I swear, sometimes I think you're death."

I follow him to the front of the chariot and get in. Bron and Aqua have their own chariot in front of us now.

Then we're moving.

The horses pull us down the streets, pass thousands of Capitol citizens that are screaming and cheering.

My dress is on TV.

So is everyone else's, but I only notice mine.

Sometimes, there are small moments that you remember, like the first flower of spring. Other times there are big things.

I'm still not sure what from this I'll remember. Maybe nothing.

That night it takes me an hour in the shower to get all of the makeup off of my face. At dinner, Tearnan and Amira are just so, so, so excited. And we did so, so, so wonderful out there. It was stunning, stunning, stunning. And just wait until we see our interview dress.

It's 8:30 by the time dinner is finished.

"Training tomorrow," Tearnan says. "Get some sleep."

Doors shut and locked. Lights out.

I put on jeans and a knit sweater and sneak out of my room and up to the roof.

Teal eyes.

9:00.

Roof.

Talor.

He's there, not leaning against the railing this time but sitting against it, legs crossed and arms folded, eyes closed.

Who knows how much time I'll have for fun.

I quietly walk up to him, making sure that my feet don't make any noise. Then, before I know it I'm crouched on the ground, and my face is an inch from his.

If he opened his eyes right now, I wonder what he'd see. I wonder if he would see the scared, weak, worthless tribute that I am, or the tribute I'm trying so hard to be.

"Boo," I say.

He doesn't flinch, like I was hoping he would, but his eyes open and he laughs.

"Hello, Calla."

Even in the dark his eyes are bright and alive and awake.

"Hello, Talor."

I feel like this is a test, and whoever moves first loses. He must feel the same, because we stare each other down for what feels like forever, and then finally, without diverting his eyes he says,

"Do you want to sit down?"

"Yes." I blink and sit next to him, stretching my legs out. "Why did you want me to come up here?"

"Because I can never sleep and it gets lonely up here alone," he says.

"Ha. No really. Why talk to me if we just have to kill each other?"

"The odds are that there are 24 people in that arena and one of them is far more likely to get to me before you do. Now stop asking that question."

"Okay, then why did you ask ME to come up here?"

"Because you're a fake Career and I want to know why," he says.

Because of him.

Because of her.

Because I'm not strong.

"Because..." I don't know how to start. I don't know why I should.

Maybe it's okay to confide in one person. I'm going to die anyways, why not just tell him so that I can tell someone.

"Because he threatened me," I say.

"Who's he?" Talor asks softly.

I wonder if he can hear my heart beating. I wonder if he knows how for the last few days, I haven't been able to breathe. I wonder if he knows that I'm suffocating.

"My..." I don't know the word for it anymore. Maybe there once was a word that I called him, but it was buried with her.

"My dad."

Then I tell him everything.

I tell him that my mom had me when she was 16, and that at the Reaping when she was 18, she volunteered. I remember seeing her before she got on the train. She told me that she was going away for awhile and that when she came back we would be rich.

She died in the bloodbath at the Cornucopia.

I guess sometimes people get lucky.

I guess sometimes people die.

I tell him that my dad never touched me since then, that he went to work and came home and made food, and then as soon as I was able to make food for myself he stopped doing that too. I tell Talor that every night for 14 years I listened to him drink himself to sleep and throw the bottles at my wall.

"How could you do this to me?" he would scream at me. "Why did you make her go?"

I tell Talor that not everyone in district two is rich, that some of us only get by because people like my dad work in the mines the whole day and never take a break to remember that they have a child, and that it wasn't her fault.

It wasn't her fault. It wasn't her fault.

Don't cry.

I'm suffocating.

I'm not strong.

I tell Talor that if I didn't volunteer at the Reaping then I would've had to live with him for a whole extra year, and that he told me if I didn't I'd regret it.

I tell Talor that I'm terrified, and that I'm not a real tribute, and that I can't play the game because I was never in it to begin with.

And then he says, "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For being here."

I laugh nervously. "All I've done is rant to you."

"But you came, and that's always something," he says.

I shrug and we sit in silence for a while.

"Calla?" he whispers.

"Mm?"

"Why didn't you ever leave?" he asks.

"Leave?" I repeat, confused. It's a simple question. And there's no doubt I haven't thought about it.

"Yeah. You just stayed.. and took it. And you didn't deserve any of that."

"I did leave," I tell him. "I volunteered."

"Because he told you to! You were his slave, Calla!"

Talor's speaking loudly now. I'm not sure if he's mad or what, but his sudden change is scaring me.

I don't like being called a slave.

I don't like admitting to myself that it's true.

"What if I wanted to, Talor?! Huh? What if I wanted to bring honor to my district?!" I shout back.

Talor runs his hands through his hair.

"But you don't!" he argues.

"What if I lied!?"

I don't understand what's happening. I don't know what I'm doing.

Maybe it's natural for me to make people hate me.

I'm not strong.

All of the energy leaves Talor's body at once and his shoulders hunch.

"I'm so sick of trying to understand everything, Calla," he whispers.

"Me too," I whisper back, my voice shaking. When did I start admitting things to people? When did I start trusting someone other than Braylee?

Talor hides his face in his hands and I'm so confused. To me, he seems to understand everything. Even with the most complicated things, he just makes the solution so simple.

Why didn't I run away? Why didn't I stop it? Why didn't I sort through the answers like Talor did in two minutes?

Because I'm not strong.

"I think I was waiting for him to become my father again," I whisper, answering Talor's question truthfully.

Talor peels his hands away from his face.

Teal eyes blinking up to the sky.

Teal eyes blinking up at mine.

Teal eyes never leaving mine.

"Yeah," he whispers.

He hands me another note and blinks.

And then he leaves.

Come back.

Please.

Say something.

But the wind catches my words and carries them before they're out of my mouth.

Just like everything else I want to say.

Gone.

* * *

**Phew. I gave you guys a really really long chapter this time. Congratualtions for managing to finish it all.**

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	7. The Training

After the elevator closes and Talor's face is down, down, down, I open the note and read it.

Training Center. Air vent. Lunch.

It's another meeting place to reveal secrets, but I'm not sure I want to go. He's going to die. I'm going to die. We're going to die. Why bother getting to know each other? Talor was right when he said that someone else was far more likely to get to him before I do, but he will still die. And I don't want to become friends with a deadman.

Once the moon is high in the sky and I'm shivering beyond control I stand and go back to my room. I'm not in the mood to think about teal eyes and stars. I just want to sleep.

And I do.

But it's not peaceful.

It starts with a whisper that I can't make out, and then I realize that it's Braylee's voice, and then I realize that she's telling me to run. It's a memory. A memory of stealing money from her dad's wallet and running before he would catch us.

Instead of sounding playful though, it's distorted so that she sounds frantic and terrified.

"Run, Calla! Run!"

Then I'm in the arena, and there's nothing but grass and wild flowers that blow in the wind. All I can think of is, why is Braylee here? Why is she here? I have to get her out. And I'm frantic, searching for her and that voice that tells me to run.

"Run, Calla! Run!"

Then I hear her scream.

I wake up.

"Run, Calla! Run!"

Run.

As usual, Tearnan pounds on my door.

"We woke up late!" he shouts frantically. "No breakfast! Get your clothes on and head straight downstairs!"

"Run, Calla! Run!"

Not this time.

I hurriedly get the clothes laid out for me labeled "TRAINING" and pull my hair up into a ponytail.

I'm ready before Brent is.

Amira nods at me approvingly and says, "I like it, Calla."

"Thank you," I tell her.

Maybe I can still be her favorite.

Maybe it took me too long to realize that no one was going to save me.

"Run, Calla! Run!"

But the echo is quieter.

Down in the training center, we are exactly 60 seconds early, and the last tributes to arrive. We say hi to Aqua and Bron, and then are introduced to Dollar and Zanya, who are the District Four tributes and our other future allies.

Dollar is short but sturdy, with a pale buzz cut and scars that run down his boyish face. It looks ridiculous.

Zanya has long, wavy blond hair and dark brown, hard eyes. She's so tall not even Bron could look down at her, but she's skinny.

"Hello," they both say in unison.

"Uhh, hi," I say awkwardly.

"Hey there," Brent says to Zanya, winking.

She rolls her eyes.

He's 12.

Technically a child.

Aren't we all?

Braylee has stopped telling me to run.

"Welcome to your first day of training," the instructor yells to us through a microphone. "Here, you will learn survival skills as well and fighting techniques. Make sure to spread yourself out evenly, you can die from anything out there."

The doors behind her start to peel open.

"Enjoy," she grins.

* * *

Aqua, Bron, Dollar, Zanya, Brent, and I spread ourselves out around the weaponry. I'm aching to go over to the station that Talor's at, just to watch him make a fire, but I need to be here. I'm not supposed to talk to him.

I'm not.

Aqua decides that to show dominance we need to spar each other.

"Show strength, but keep it simple," she tells me. "I won't beat you and you won't beat me, just show them we know what we're doing."

But I'm not listening. I'm not paying attention to her giving me hands me a short, blunt swords and yells, "Start!" and flies at me. She's coming too fast; I could stab her in the stomach right now and kill her. Why didn't I pay attention?

Confused, I block her blade and hit her in the shoulder with the hilt of mine, smiling as she topples over.

Brent, Dollar, and Bron stare at me, shocked.

Aqua's eyes burn.

"You're an idiot Calla," she hisses. "You want to play it dirty, huh? Then come at me!"

She gets up off the ground and comes back at me, but this time her speed is perfect and she's ready for my block. This time she knows what she's doing.

I block instinctively and whirl around, slashing at her. Aqua senses it though, and quickly ducks under my blade. We continue like this forever, stabbing and slashing and blocking until my arm feels like rubber and I want to collapse.

We are completely matched in skill.

It reminds me of Braylee, how she would press me and press me until I couldn't move. How she would make sure that my every move was perfection.

It's like she knew all along.

Eventually, the trainer for the sword station has to break us apart because everyone else has abandoned their stations to watch us and because they're afraid we'll kill each other.

Twenty minutes, Brent tells me. We fought for twenty minutes.

And neither of us has a scratch.

Braylee told me once that sometimes when opponents are at your level, you have to pretend you're below them, and then when they relax you strike.

I never understood why she thought like this, about what we would need to know for the games. I knew she would never volunteer, and I never imagined I would.

Now I'm thankful she did.

Aqua's frustrated growl tells me that she is not happy that we tied. That she is furious that I was someone she couldn't beat.

I'm not strong.

But I beat her.

Because now, while she is throwing knives into dummies across he room with a hungry vengeance, I am calm and collected and shooting arrows at a target.

I'm borderline terrible. I never really understood how perfect the bow was for a long distance weapon. I have no skill for it except for the hours Braylee made me practice.

"Bow is my favorite," she told me once with a laugh. "The hardest part is keeping it held up."

That's not true.

There is aim and and wind directions and strength and so many things that I can't concentrate on.

My knowledge of archery is set to a very, very basic level.

The rest of the day before lunch consists of me and Bron competing against each other with daggers and shields, and me working with the whip neatly lying on the top of the weapons basket.

The whip is my weapon.

The bell rings for lunch, and my mind quickly debates whether or not I should find the air duct Talor was talking about.

Why should I?

Why do I keep talking to him when I know that he will die?

Him or me, one of us has to go.

If it's just me using him because I'm lonely and scared then that's cruel. If he's using me for that reason too, then it makes us pathetic.

I watch Talor as he slyly slips out the door of the training room with his lunch tray in his hands.

No one watches him but me.

Follow.

Don't follow.

Follow.

Don't follow.

"Calla!" Zanya calls to me from a table across the room.

I'm not strong.

I turn away from Talor.

"Run, Calla! Run!"

Braylee is everywhere today.

* * *

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	8. The Kiss

**Hey guys! So the next couple chapters are going to be really long because I need to squeeze all of the Talor/Calla fluff and all of the game prep in so that we can get on with the Hungers Games! Woot! Woot! **

* * *

I spend the rest of the training day building fires to calm me down. Brent, Dollar, and Bron try to get me to use the whip more, but I tell them no.

I need to be alone.

The only person besides me at the station is the trainer, but after realizing that I'm a Career, he leaves me to my own devices.

On my second fire, when I'm rubbing two sticks together and trying to get sparks, I hear, "Maybe you should rub these rocks together instead."

Talor.

Teal eyes blinking up to the sky.

On his outstretched hand are two, dark rocks.

I take them and mumble "Thanks."

The trainer leaves to break up a fight that has aroused from two tributes on the other side of the room.

"Don't worry about not coming during lunch, I get that you have a reputation to uphold," he whispers.

I want to lean in and listen to him talk more; his voice is so relaxing and peaceful and filled with secrets.

But instead I snap.

"I wasn't worried about not coming."

"Good, because if you're fine with never talking to me again, then I'm fine too."

It was like he was breaking up with me, except that we weren't even friends.

Allies maybe, but in this Game an ally is someone you try not to kill.

And he was killing me.

"I'm fine with that," I say.

He leans over and whispers, "Bye, Calla."

Then he stands up and leaves me there with two rocks in my hand and a pounding in my head.

I'm tingling with adrenaline.

I never knew that someone could leave me feeling so powerful, but so delicate at the same time.

I'm not strong.

I never knew that someone could literally take the weight off my shoulders with a few written words, scratched onto a piece of paper.

I'm suffocating.

I never knew that I was missing out on so much, or that I now had so much to lose.

Don't cry.

I'm so far past crying.

We are sent back to our rooms for dinner.

At dinner Brent gives Amira the report that I was a loner, and the only time I did anything significant was when I used a whip, which most likely won't be in the arena anyways.

He, on the other hand, apparently scared even the fiercest tributes away with his skill with a sword.

Tearnan is yelling, yelling, yelling at me.

"Do you not understand how much your district needs you right now! Do you not realize that you will die before the gong rings out! Do you not realize that the Games are crucial, and that you could ruin it for your district forever!"

But they're not actually questions, they're statements that are supposed to get into my head and stir something in me that makes me want to kill and win.

Amira just shakes her head across the table.

"Why the hell did you volunteer anyways?!" Tearnan shrieks.

"Run, Calla! Run!"

I stand up. "Because maybe there's a lot more layers to me than you think. Maybe I changed my mind... Maybe I don't want to play the Game! And maybe I think the whole system is terrible for what it's put us through!" I scream.

Tearnan, Amira, and Brent seem to be listening for the Peacekeepers to come in and ask what was wrong with me, why did I not think like the others, why do I not understand?

I understand.

"Run, Calla! Run!"

And I do.

I'm punching the elevator button before they realize I'm leaving, and then I'm being carried up to the roof before I remember that it's his place, and that I dismissed it earlier today.

That I dismissed him.

The elevator opens at the roof and a cool breeze blows my hair back, cooling down my head.

I debate whether or not to be a real tribute and go down the elevator, or to go out there and talk to him.

I'm not strong.

It's not a secret anymore.

I step out onto the roof.

I try to convince myself that I don't care, but I still walk a full lap around the roof looking for him.

He's not here.

Maybe I wrecked it. Maybe I gave away the only possible ally I ever had.

I lean across the banister and watch the Capitol. Some of the citizens are dancing through the streets with their crazy clothing, some of them are cheering. Someone comes up next to me and leans across the banister too.

"Isn't it funny how the worst days of our lives are the best of theirs?" he asks.

"I guess. Ironic definitely," I reply.

I open my mouth to say sorry to Talor, sorry that I'm a terrible person, sorry that I don't care.

"Hey, look at me," he says softly.

I swallow back my words and look at him.

Teal eyes blinking up to the sky.

Teal eyes blinking up at me.

"Forget about today. Forget about not coming. Forget I ever asked. It's fine, okay?" he says.

I feel like I'm falling.

I nod.

"Are you okay?" Talor asks me sincerely.

I sit down and lean back against the banister, not saying anything. When he does the same I open my mouth and say "I don't want to die."

Maybe I didn't say it. Maybe it was taken away from me like all of my other words.

But he heard it anyways.

"I know."

And then, "I don't either."

This is where I should start crying, I think. This is where I cry and the guy holds me and says it's okay, and then it is.

But I don't cry, because I can't.

I must be shivering, because even though I don't ask, Talor wraps his jacket around me; and I rest my head on his shoulders.

There are no stars in the Capitol. There are no birds tweeting. There is no wind. There is only the shouts and music of the people down below us.

But it's one of the most peaceful moments in my life.

No, it's not romantic, although it could be. It's just relaxing and comforting.

Sometimes, I really do feel strong, and then someone will shift or say something and I realize that I was lying to myself again. But no one says anything.

So I feel strong.

But at the same time I might be breaking.

* * *

After laying like that for a while, and nearly falling asleep, Talor shifts himself so that he's facing me, and I'm forced to lift my head off his shoulder.

"I need you to listen to me, are you listening?" he says.

"Yes," I reply, pulling my arms through his jacket.

"In the arena, you need to befriend those Careers, okay? You need to make sure that they trust you with their lives. Because if they do they will protect you. Then, when the pool gets down to eight people, you need to leave."

"Why are you helping me?" I whisper.

He ignores my question completely.

"You get as far away from them as possible, and you hide out as long as you can. You hide until they have no way of finding you. Then, when the Game is almost finished, you hunt everyone down."

I shake my head, "I don't..."

"You will win, okay? You've trained and you're strong and you're not going to die."

"If you know all the answers, why don't you do it yourself?" I ask.

"Because they'll accept you, not me. And I want you to win."

"That's ridiculous," I say. "Everyone here just wants to keep themselves alive." I pause. "And I'm not."

He seems confused.

Not what?

Not strong.

I'm not strong.

Talor thinks I'm strong.

He shakes his head. "I don't care what you think. You can do this. You don't think I haven't thought about this? When I first stepped off that train and locked eyes with you I knew it. I knew you would win. Don't pretend you don't know it too. You can do it, okay?" he says, face heating up in desperation for me t understand. I'm not sure if he's angry or if he's just this determined on me winning.

I shake my head slowly. He's wrong.

"...I don't think I can," I say quietly. So quietly I can't hear it myself. Maybe these words have been stolen too. I wish they were.

But he hears them again. He always hears me.

"Don't say that. You know why Aqua was so furious at you beating her? Because she saw it. Brent trying to act twice his age? He saw it too!"

Now I'm yelling.

"No! You know why she was mad? Cause she was beaten by a weak tribute and she knows that she's better!" I pause and stand up, shrugging off his jacket as fast as I can. "I don't get you. You keep trying to talk to me and help me, even though it means your own death, and then you go and lie about everyone being in awe of me! Is it funny to you? Do you think I'll believe you?"

I toss the jacket at him and turn to leave. I'm not talking to him again.

I won't.

I won't.

"Calla."

I whip around. "What?"

He's so close. His face is inches from mine. I didn't know he was so fast. I didn't know he could make me this furious and yet make me want to stay so badly.

"You know why I want you to win?" he asks, pausing between each word, as if begging me to understand them.

"Why?"

And then he kisses me.

And I don't move away.

And I don't know why.

Then he pulls back and says, "That's why."

I can't even process his words. I'm only aware that my mouth is hanging open in shock and that I want his jacket back, because now that he's stepped away it's so much colder.

"I-I.." I stutter, trying to find words.

But I never can.

And then I'm running to the elevator, and hitting the button and sliding in without looking at his face.

The second the door closes I slide to the floor and grip the plush carpet, thinking.

He kissed me.

He kissed me.

He kissed me.

He's deceiving me.

I'm not strong.

He likes me.

He kissed me.

When the doors slide open at my floor I step quietly into my room.

I'm suffocating.

The next morning I wake up by myself, to light streaming in from the window.

I get dressed in the training clothes and walk out to the dining room where the elegant table is set up with food. A servant appears and butters my toast and pours orange juice into my cup.

I almost tell her that I can do it myself, then I decide not to.

Talor told me to befriend the Careers.

First I need to act like one.

I'm not strong.

I don't even nod a thank you to her as she walks away, I just take an angry bite of my bread and stuff it into my mouth, along with eggs, bacon, and a cinnamon roll.

Three more people awake and one hour later, Brent and I are training again.

This time I give it my all. I scrimmage with Aqua and Zanya, beating Zanya and then tying with Aqua. Braylee already told me how to beat her, but I don't want to give it away.

During lunch we act loud and obnoxious and intimidating. Across the room, I think I see Talor smile at my effort. At one point, I'm positive I hear him laugh.

Halfway through the last part of the day, Zanya asks me "Hey, do you see that district three kid?" she points to Talor, who is currently tying knots at the station next to us.

"Yeah, why?" I ask her, suddenly very worried that she knows. That she knows everything.

"He keeps watching you," she says, shrugging.

He keeps watching you.

He kissed me.

I almost say it. It's suicide, but I almost do.

"Hmm, that's strange," I say instead.

"Mmm," she studies him and then says, "He's kind of cute."

I feel defensive suddenly.

"Too bad he's gong to die," she adds, stabbing a knife straight into a dummy's heart.

Then I feel a different kind of defensive.

But I can't.

What happens if he dies before me in the arena and I see it on the screens?

What happens then?

I throw my knife and hit the dummy in the neck.

What happens is I'm screwed.

* * *

**Phew. That was looooong. They kissed! By the way, is everyone else back at school? I want my summer back!**


	9. The Realizations

**I haven't updated in a while, but that's because I've got a new story up in the Max Ride section that I've been trying to get started. If you'd be interested in reading it, go to my profile and you'll see it in there. (:**

* * *

That night when I see Talor I ask him what makes me strong. It's very important to me that I know, because so far I've felt fake.

Fake and strong are opposites.

You can't be both.

Talor shrugs. "I guess it's the way that you carry yourself," he says. Then upon seeing my confused expression he elaborates. "You always stand straight, with your held high. And your eyes have this kind of wary sadness in them, like you've been through more then everyone else. It's weird because usually the district 12 tributes look like that, but you're right there with them." He pauses and shrugs. "And it's how you do your own thing. Like when all the Careers were doing archery and you were making fires. People admire that, not playing by the rules."

But in this game you have too.

I don't.

That's bad.

I'm supposed to.

I need to admit something to him. I need to make sure that he understands something.

"I don't feel strong," I say.

"I know," he replies.

"You know?"

Teal eyes blinking up to the sky.

Teal eyes staring straight into mine.

"Yeah."

I want ask him how he knows that I'm being lied too. I want to ask him so many things.

But I don't because I'm so caught up in his eyes and in him and in his simple understanding of everything that doesn't make sense to me.

"Talor?" I say quietly.

He leans forward. We're sitting opposite of each other, and now he's leaning towards me. And I want to lean forward too.

"I wish you were from district two," I say. "Then I wouldn't of volunteered."

I'm not sure why I said it. I just don't know. I know that I was thinking it, wishing for it. But I didn't want to say it.

Maybe words can be stolen from your head too, and not just from your lips.

"I do too," he whispers.

"You do?" I'm breathless suddenly, and I'm not sure why.

"If I was then I would've made sure that you never had to volunteer in the first place."

I want to cry, not out of weakness, or out of sadness that we're going to die, but out of relief that he's here.

A small part of me still thinks that it might be a trick.

A bigger part of me doesn't care.

"Thank you," I whisper.

He quirks his mouth into a lopsided smile. "For what?"

"Everything." I open my mouth to say something else, but he kisses me on the nose and I don't.

"Come on, we should go back, it's late," he says.

On cue, I yawn and he laughs.

I shake my head.

"I don't want to go, I want to stay here."

But suddenly I'm tired and I want to sleep.

But I don't want to leave him.

I've never felt like this for anyone before. I'm not sure if its desperation or love or friendship or what, but I don't him to leave my side.

It's terrible.

I can't get into my head that at least one of us is going to die.

Whenever I think about it it floats away and is replaced by 'why do you care?'

I do care.

I don't want to die.

I don't want him to die either.

I don't know what's happening to me.

Talor knows that I'm tired, but he shifts so that he's leaning against the wall.

"Sure you're not," he says, patting his lap.

He's offering me a pillow so that I can lay down and stay up here.

I take it.

I lay my head down on his lap and close my eyes.

Talor lays his jacket over me.

Everything about him is like a lullaby. It's so relaxing and comforting and safe

you just want to curl up next to him and sleep like that forever.

So I do.

I try not to, but despite me telling him that I'm not tired, I'm not tired, I slowly drift off to sleep.

Bird's cry

In the sky

Flying high

My lullaby

...

Reaching out

With a shout

So much doubt

My lullaby

...

Glass shards

Teardrop falls

Hope gone

My lullaby

...

Safe and sound

It's alright now

With you here

My lullaby

...

"Calla."

...

"Calla."

...

Three days after my mom's death I think I stopped feeling.

"Calla!"

I'm not really sure why.

"Open your eyes!"

I was so young, I don't know if I actually understood what had happened.

"Crap, Calla! It's like your deaf."

But in a way I guess I kind of did.

I don't think it takes an explanation to realize someone you love is dead. It's a realization in others eyes that tells you.

"Fine. You know what? I'll leave you here."

My father carried it around for 14 years.

I promised myself I wouldn't.

"Heck. You want to know the truth?"

But I did anyways.

I carried it in my soul and my pounding head and my sore, sore heart.

I carried it like it was woven into me, pieces binding themselves together underneath my skin.

"Alright, I'll tell you."

My father did too. But he showed it off, he hurt me with it's blinding glare every single day.

"I don't think it's possible for me to leave you here."

But you did.

He did.

My father did.

When Talor is finally able to shake me awake I yawn and ask him, "Did you say something?"

"Calla, I say everything," he tells me.

And then it's time to sneak downstairs and eat breakfast and pretend that I can't feel the hole in my chest when I breath. That I can't see Talor's eyes. That I don't know his name.

Because now I have to be strong.

I'm not strong.

I stopped being strong when I stopped feeling.

I won't ever be strong again.


	10. Impressing the Gamemakers?

**I wrote up this story a long time ago and started posting it around the beginning of summer. Since then, my writing has changed a lot, and honestly, I don't really like the way this story is written anymore. That's why I kind of started ignoring it. Now that I'm almost to the end of the prewritten chapters, I've started editing them and writing new ones, and hopefully I've started improving it. Thanks to all of you that have stuck with this story through the beginning. Starting now, the chapters will become less choppy and Calla will become less whiny. Hopefully.**

**If you have any suggestions, feel free to write a review or PM me, especially for twists once the Games start.**

**Thanks to you all; you're seriously mazing. (:**

* * *

The last day of training is a fast blur of madly trying to intimidate the other tributes. Every so often, my eyes find Talor's. They hold for a moment, and then blink away.

I wonder what's going to happen when everything falls apart.

Hasn't it already?

I have firmly gained trust from the other Careers. They even include me with their jokes and teases, nudging harshly now and joking about who will be the first one killed. Usually they decide that it will be me, and I just laugh and torment them back.

On my fourth day, we have the individual judging sessions. We used to only have two days to train, and then the last day was all individual, but then tributes started dieing too quickly and they added an extra day.

Like that'll make a difference.

The Gamemakers who watch you perform give you a score from 1 - 12. 1 is incredibly low and 12 is unbelievably high. The tributes go in numerical order of their district with the boy going in first, which means that I don't have to wait long before it's my turn to go in.

To my surprise, there's a golden whip sitting on the table in front of me, with dummies and targets spread around the room. The Gamekeepers watch us throughout the days of training, so they know what weapons we prefer and our fighting styles. I'm not sure how other tribute's training goes, or if they were only given one weapon or a huge range of them; we're not allowed to talk about it.

My hand grips the cool metal of the whip.

It's coiled around in a loose circle, easily able to fit through a belt loop for safe carriage. One side of the whip is a sharp, bendable blade, the other is normal leather.

"You may begin," the Head Gameskeeper says over the speaker.

I lift the whip off of the table and shake it, loosening it from it's loop. Then, I look around me and my eyes land on the dummy that is closest to me. I flick the bladed side of the whip around the dummy's neck. It wraps around twice, and then the head crashes to the ground and rolls to a stop at my feet.

"Run, Calla! Run!" Braylee calls in my head, but she's laughing now. "Is that all you've got?" her voice shouts to me, pushing me in training, pushing me till my lungs couldn't hold any air.

Yes. No. Sometimes I have no idea. But today?

With wicked speed, I slash out across the course. I grip dummy's hands with the leather side, yanking them off their stands. Then I grip onto bars on the roof, swinging myself over beams across the floor.

With the sharp side, I can do such garish, dangerous things, I didn't even know were legal. I can leave slashes across dummy's faces, watching their stuffing fall out. I can cut off the dummy's arms and legs by whipping it around and watching the joint come off with a pop.

In practice it's fascinating, and I push faster and faster until not even Braylee can shout inside my head.

But with people, I don't think I'd be brave enough.

The Gamekeepers don't know that though.

When I stop and turn around, every dummy has either been pulled across the room or slashed to pieces.

"You may go, Calla," Head Gamemaker says, cutting off the speakers.

I gently lay the whip on the table, and then I'm suffocating, forcing myself to walk slowly to the exit.

The room that I waited in is full of tributes clenching their hair and freaking out, with good reason, too. Later today we get to see the scores, and though they're not a definite guarantee of who will win the Games, it's a pretty good estimate.

I leave the room as quickly as I can, but not before Talor catches my eye and lets out a small smile.


End file.
